


into the tomb

by em_gray



Series: AU fic challenge [11]
Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Body Horror, Graphic Description, Haunted Houses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, ish?? it's got like the vibes but also i'm a coward so it probably won't be that scary, rated it as mature just in case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/pseuds/em_gray
Summary: “The house is haunted. Super haunted.”“Don’t bullshit me.”
Relationships: Felicity Montague & Henry "Monty" Montague, Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Series: AU fic challenge [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640491
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: TGGTVAV AU Challenge Fics





	into the tomb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/gifts), [goldenthunderstorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenthunderstorms/gifts).
  * Inspired by [To the Letter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006753) by [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope). 



> hi guys! here we are with round 11 from the au challenge fics! for this one i went the bookstore from pinstripedJackalope's fic To The Letter and turned it into a library. that link isn't in chapter 1 yet, but you'll see it soon! i... have no idea how long this fic is going to be, but hopefully not too long, haha. I estimate somewhere between 5 and 10 chapters. we shall see. enjoy!

Moving us all to an ancient house in the middle of nowhere for the summer is one of my father’s most creative punishments yet, I’ll give him that.

It sits atop the cliffs, in its muted tones and with its windows for eyes, at first glance seemingly ready to collapse. It is not: Father had it renovated and furnished before we moved in, so it’s unfortunately quite stable. It’s cold, and huge - even bigger than our actual house in Cheshire, and that’s already a mansion. I keep getting lost, and I’m convinced it’s playing tricks on my mind. A certain hollowness goes out from it - palpable as you walk through it. It’s upsetting. I find myself spending more time outside than I usually would in this weather, just because the inside of the house gives me the creeps.

The village it towers over is a similar combination of dull and unsettling. It’s about four streets, fifty houses, and a total population of less than a hundred people. I’ve yet to meet someone who isn’t either over the age of forty or under the age of five. Everything and everyone is sad and grey. It’s the kind of town that watches strangers from the corners of its eyes, knowing more than you do. Everybody acts like this town harbors serial killers but absolutely no one is going to snitch. Maybe it’s a town made up entirely of serial killers. I haven’t ruled out that possibility yet.

More annoying than the creepiness is that the entire place is _beyond_ boring. My car’s still back in Cheshire and my phone has somehow gone missing. I’ve accused Felicity of the theft, and while she is not above such a thing, her reaction seemingly proves her to be innocent. That leaves only one option left, and I certainly will not be confronting him. The point is, I’m bored out of my mind, and wandering the house trying to pick the least creepy room loses its charm after a while.

Father’s not even here, which is a bit double. On one hand, I’m mad he’s put us up in this house and isn’t even here to suffer alongside with us, but on the other hand, no Father around is always good news.

Which still leaves me very bored. I’m genuinely contemplating walking to the next village (wherever that is, this town is literally located in the middle of nowhere), just in hopes there’ll be something going on there. I’ve tried pestering Felicity, but she locks herself in her room every day (seemingly even more pissed at the situation than I am). There’s always Mother, of course, but she’s never been the best company, and now she’s mostly preoccupied with the baby. I have no intention to go anywhere near the baby.

So that’s how, one afternoon, I find myself wandering across the grounds. The weather is just as ghastly as it ever is, a combination of chilly temperatures, fog, and the occasional drizzle (it’s _summer_ , for God’s sake). The terrain itself is uneven, and I find myself stumbling often, which only makes me hate everything more. I’m kicking the grass when I hear it.

It’s so faint that at first I think I’m imagining it. The waves crashing against the cliffs are the loudest thing by far, but above it, there’s a thin, tender sound. A melody. I try to focus on it. It seems to be coming from below, down near the caves. I have a very strong feeling of dread, but I’m pulled toward it, descending the stone staircase with the wind tugging at my hair.

It’s a sad tune, slow and melancholic, and it goes right through me. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but I’ve really got no other choice than to go straight at it.

I find its source in someone sitting on one of the rocks, his back to me, facing the sea. He’s got a violin in one hand, resting between his shoulder and chin, and his bow in the other - pulling it back and forth as his fingers dance over the strings. He’s swaying with the music, really living through it, and it’s such an impressive picture I’m almost convinced it’s not real. I’m standing right behind him now. He hasn’t noticed me, and I’m too mesmerized to say anything. So I just watch him as he completes the song, hands and violin lowering.

He’s going to realize I’m here sooner rather than later, and I do not want to be caught standing behind a stranger like a creep. Obviously I have to say something first. My mind runs through a few possible options. _That was beautiful._ Or maybe, _Who are you? Do you live here? Could you play me something else?_

I settle on a very loud, “Who are you and what the _hell_ are you doing here?”

He jumps, yelping, and literally falls off the rock. He scrambles back, arms raised and violin in front of him like a shield, gasping for breath. I raise an eyebrow. Finally, he’s properly looking at me. He lets out a shaky breath, then clutches the hand still holding the bow to his chest. “ _Fuck_. Are you trying to scare me to death?”

“You’re the one who started like he’d seen a ghost, darling. I just asked a question.”

He frowns at me for a while. His eyes dart to something behind me, then he says: “You’re aware we’re on the Tomb’s grounds, right?”

“The… what?”

“You know. The big creepy house on the hill. You realize we’re still on its surrounding property, right?”

“Very much. That’s why I asked what you’re doing here.”

He watches me for a long while, confused. His eyes dart up and down, briefly getting stuck on my hearing aid (ugh, always the same), before settling on my face. “...Are you new in town?”

I resent it being that obvious. “What about it?”

He starts climbing to his feet with a scoff. “That explains it. Trust me, if you’d heard _half_ of the stories about the Tomb, you’d be more surprised to run into someone here who _isn’t_ a ghost.”

A… ghost? I frown. Is he delusional? He doesn’t seem like it, but I did find him playing the violin sitting on a cliff and talking about ghosts, so, who knows. Maybe he isn’t the ideal conversational partner. I circle back to where I started this conversation, “What _are_ you doing here?”

He brushes the dirt of his trousers with one hand. “I come here to play all the time. Why do you care?”

“Well, you’re sort of on my family’s property, darling. So that makes it trespassing.”

His head shoots up. “ _What?_ ”

I’m getting impatient. It’s windy, and cold, and even if the house is awful, I want to get back inside. “My father bought this house. So I can kick you out.”

He’s really staring at me now, like _I’m_ the one out of my mind. “The Tomb? Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

He gives me a look you’d give someone who’d just told you the greatest misfortune of their lifetime had befallen them. He pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

He kneels down and starts putting his violin back into its case, shoulders it, and starts walking away. I sort of want to let him go, but I’m curious now. “Wait!’ I call after him. He stops but doesn’t turn. “What do you mean?”

Damn the sea for making me have to shout this hard to be heard over the waves.

He looks over his shoulder, as if he’s trying to decide if a conversation with me is worth his time. Then he turns around and returns a few steps. “The house is haunted. _Super_ haunted.”

I scoff, waiting for him to crack up and admit it was a joke. He does not. My expression drops. “Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

“You’re out of your mind, then.”

He puts up his hands. “Whatever you say. It’s not me who’s going to be haunted tonight.”

It sends a shiver down my spine. He seems to really believe it, and I must admit, the house is creepy. Horror movie creepy. People-probably-died-here creepy. But I refuse to show it, so I cross my arms. “Get off my property.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I put on my most saccharine smile and sappiest voice. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and fuck off?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m well aware, darling.”

He rolls his eyes, then turns. “Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

Dinner is, as usual, dreadfully dull. Felicity and I don’t speak and Mother is preoccupied with attempting to feed the Goblin. Cutlery clinks against the plates and echoes through the dining hall. In spite of it being summer and the heating being on, the house is always just a bit too cold to be comfortable. Even the food tastes worse, which makes no sense, as it is prepared by the exact same kitchen staff. I’m starting to build a theory that this house is, in fact, cursed - cursed to make me die of monotony and boredom.

I stop in the middle of a bite with a sigh and put down my cutlery. “Mother, when are we returning home?”

“By the end of summer,” she replies, without looking up. She’s quite a distance removed from me at the other end of the table, tired voice resonating against the ornate walls.

“I can’t stay here for two more entire months!” I protest. We’ve had this discussion a few times, but as I’ve nothing to do, I’m quite prepared to have it a few more times, perhaps until it yields results. If I am to suffer here, then so is the rest of my family.

Felicity rolls her eyes spectacularly but doesn’t comment, which only makes me angrier.

“Got something to say, Felicity?” I ask loudly.

She narrows her eyes at me, calculating if I’m worth the effort. “You’re not the only one who’s unhappy to be here, _Henry_ ,” she snaps.

“Oh, really? What are you missing, then? The parties? The people? They’ve got books here, too, plenty of them, so what’s your fucking problem? You’re such an antisocial shut-in I’m surprised you’ve even noticed we moved.”

I’m not really sure why I’m lashing out at her. It’s not her fault I’m stuck here. This is not quite as satisfying as taking out my anger on the person to blame (which I wouldn’t dare, even if he was here), but I’ll take it.

“ _Henry_ ,” Mother berates me, finally looking up from feeding the baby. The latter clearly does not like this, as he starts to cry, and her attention is redirected to him.

Felicity sends me a lingering glare that plainly implies I’m too stupid to understand any of it, which only makes me angrier. But she pointedly turns back to her plate and says, very measuredly: “I’m not the one who ended up in the newspapers again, brother dear. So if you want to shout at someone, I suggest you find a mirror.”

My anger is a burning thing inside me, and the fire spikes with that comment. I stand up more brusquely than I mean to, shoving the chair back, and snarl: “ _Whatever_ . I’m getting out of here. If you need me, I _won’t_ be in my room.”

“When have we ever needed you?” Felicity mutters, right before I slam the door behind me.

It’s past midnight when I’m roaming the house like a ghost, unable to sleep and looking for a drink. It’s itching inside me - the ache for it, the anger from earlier, _all_ the anger directed at _everyone_ is making me lose my mind. Everyone’s asleep and I’m happier not to turn any lights on. The house is so damn big I keep getting lost and in the hour I’ve been walking around I still haven’t reached the kitchen, which only makes me more pissed.

When I come across yet _another_ sitting room, I let myself slump down on one of the sofas, sinking down into the pillows. I’ve got a headache, which makes me angrier, which makes the headache worse. I am not a violent person, but in that moment, I have a very strong desire to throw something. I toy with the idea. Really, what’s stopping me from acting on it? Father isn’t here. And if Mother complains in the morning, I’ll claim it was a burglar. The house exudes wealth and has enough windows to sneak in through, anyway.

I get up and in the semidarkness of a summer night, I search from something both expensive and breakable. It takes a few rooms, but then I find something matching that description exactly. It’s a mirror, half as tall as I am, intricately decorated with gold paint and gemstones. When I study it, I find my own reflection studying me back.

It makes me sick.

I grip the mirror steadily on both sides and take a few steps back for optimal aim. The hearth is my goal, and while the mirror is a bit heavy, I think I can manage. I swing it back-

There’s a loud noise, and I start so badly I almost drop the mirror. It slips through my fingers and I can barely catch it before it hits the ground. When I’ve finally regained my balance, I’m holding my breath, clutching the frame. The sound is still going on. I realize it’s the crying of a baby. _The Goblin._ I let go of the breath I was holding. I almost laugh. The ghost stories the violinist told me earlier had instantly jumped to mind, but that was obviously ridiculous. It’s just my baby brother.

I do put the mirror down, as the baby crying implies Mother will be coming to his call soon, and I might not have enough time to get away with my crime if she’s already awake. So I calmly walk away from the room, and as more distance gets between me and the object I almost shattered, I feel calmer.

Until I realize the baby still hasn’t stopped crying. It’s been almost ten minutes and - nothing. Not even a change in tone to imply someone’s trying to comfort him. And what’s weirder - I’ve been walking away from the sound, but it hasn’t gotten any quieter.

I frown and stop. I’m not imagining it; the sound is definitely as loud as it was when it started, even though I should have half the house between us by now. And why isn’t anyone calming him down? I know Mother’s been tired lately, but even if she slept through this, one of the maids should come to the baby’s call.

But no one does.

It’s making my headache worsen, so against better judgment, I turn around and walk toward the sound. I hope I come by someone’s bedroom on my way, so I can wake them up and tell them to deal with it. I glance inside several doors, but all the rooms are empty. I turn a corner, and then I suddenly see it - one open doorway with light spilling out of it at the end of the corridor, from where the crying originates. I swallow. As much as I don’t care for the Goblin, he’s crying like the world is ending, so I figure I might go see what’s wrong. Maybe he just dropped his favorite stuffed animal and picking it up will make him shut up.

The nursery isn’t what I remember it looked like, I think, until I realize I might’ve never been inside the nursery before. The light is warm and yellow and the room is overflowing with toys and teddy bears and pillows. A mobile above the cradle projects shadows onto the wall. I think the light might be coming from inside the cradle, actually. There’s a lullaby playing, a soft and metallic sound, like from a music box. I walk toward the cradle. The crying is starting to lessen, moving on to hiccups and maybe even some giggles. For some reason, it takes me ages to cross the room. The lullaby slows down, like it needs to be winded up again. Dread rises up in me, something inside me screaming to turn away and run, but I can’t stop moving toward it. It’s like my limbs aren’t my own, and I’m a puppet on strings.

The lullaby dies out, and so do the baby’s sounds, when I finally look over the edge of the cradle. And what I see there is definitely not a baby - it’s my own face.

I jump, letting out a scream stifled by how closed up my throat is. All my muscles are pulled and ready to flee-

I realize it’s just a mirror.

For the second time tonight, I catch my breath, calming down from being convinced I was about to die. I turn my back to the cradle, resting against it, light-headed from the fear and the adrenaline seeping away. It’s ridiculous. What is even going on with me? Maybe I should just go to sleep.

The crying kicks up again. It’s coming from right behind me, from the seemingly empty cradle. I turn, movements stalled by dread. The mirror is still the only thing lying there, on the pillow, half covered with a blanket, and my own pale face is staring back at me. Is this some kind of prank? Sure, I was rude to Felicity earlier, but she’s not creative enough to put up something like this. I reach my hand out to search for the speaker that must be hidden underneath-

My own hand reaches out back at me. It’s coming from the mirror - _out_ of the mirror, undoubtedly my own but with a silver shine to the skin, and I’m so stunned by this I freeze. This is my fatal mistake. The hand grabs my wrist, and drags me through the mirror.

It feels like being pulled under water. It’s freezing, but not wet, and I can breathe, but not scream. I’m floating for a long moment, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, then I hit the ground.

I temporarily black out from the collision. I blink, trying to regain my vision, and push myself up on my elbows, gasping for breath. Below my trembling arms, on the floor, I can see myself, staring back, and I realize the surface is another mirror. Where I collided with it, cracks have formed. As I watch, they expand, connecting with each other until I’m supported by a spider web of it, and then I’m not. I’m falling again, between the glass shards into the darkness, and I can’t do anything, I can’t scream for help, I’m so afraid I can’t even think.

The fall ends so suddenly that I doubt I’ve fallen at all. I’m standing on my feet in what I think is a very big hall. My hitched breaths echo from polished surfaces, and it’s so cold, and then there’s light again and there’s _me_ again. And again and again and again.

I’m surrounded by mirrors. Everywhere I look, reflected into the distance, there’s looking glasses looking back at me. I spin around and everything is so identical I’m not sure I’ve moved at all. I start to walk but I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t, so I end up putting my hands in front of me and feeling around the edges of the mirrors to make my way. In the beginning I go slow and stumbling, and then I start to run, and hundreds of me are running beside me. The air is burning ice cold in my lungs, little clouds of condensation coming out of my mouth where cries for help should be, but I just keep running and running until I slam head first into something. I fall back, my elbows hitting the ground rather painfully, but I feel so surrounded with all my reflections that I instantly scramble back to my feet. I put my hand to the invisible wall I ran into. It’s cold and smooth, like glass, and no matter how hard I push, I can’t get through.

I turn around. My reflections are suddenly gone. I try to go back the way I came from, but even as they are without image, the mirrors are still there, glass panes on my every side. Every time I turn, they seem to get closer. In no time I have but an arm’s length of space left. I wedge myself between them, my back to one pane and my foot to another, but I’ve never exactly been known for my strength. I’m convinced I’m going to be squeezed to death-

“ _Henry._ ”

The panes suddenly stop. I’m still gasping, using all my strength to push at them. They disappear, and I fall to the ground.

“ _I’m right here, Henry._ ”

I’ve still got my hands to my head, rubbing at the bruise, but the voice makes me halt. It’s achingly familiar in a way I can’t explain. It’s low, but not excessively so, honeyed and pleasant but it has an insincerity that makes my skin crawl. Entertained. Mocking. I look up.

The space around me is a black void again, empty except for a single mirror a few feet away. In it, someone is watching me with amusement. I get on my feet and walk toward it, and when I’m right in front of it, my reflection and I mirror each other almost perfectly. He looks the same and is wearing the same clothes, but he’s smirking at me, dimples employed, and there’s something horrible behind his eyes.

I open my mouth and try to speak but still no sound comes. My hand flies up to my throat, as if my voice is a physically present thing whose absence I can feel. My reflection watches me, head tilted in mild interest.

“ _Don’t bother_ ,” he says. It’s my voice he’s using, but it’s different, too. The warmth in it disguises a hollowness and the smile he speaks with disguises cruelty. “ _That’s mine now. You won’t need it anymore, anyway._ ”

I look at him, wide-eyed, and I want to ask what he means. He seems to read my mind. “ _Your voice. Your appearance, too. You’re not doing anything useful with it. Really, when’s the last time you did anything worth anybody’s time? You’re a waste of space. About time someone fixed that._ ”

I’m frozen with fear. There’s something about this all that makes me want to put my hands up, but I can’t move. My reflection watches me for a while, waiting for a response he doesn’t get, then hums disappointedly. “ _I thought so._ ” He turns and starts walking away. I raise my arm as if I might stop him. Then I gasp in horror upon seeing my hand.

The flesh is wilting away, dripping off like wax from a candle. I grip at it with my other hand, as if I might keep myself together, but that one’s in an equally bad state. My skin falls away up until my arms, my elbows, and then my muscles and nerves follow, until I’m left staring at my own bones. I lift a hand to my face and turn, and I’m suddenly face to face with an actual reflection again, showing me how my face is falling off, dripping like blood, my eyes turning into hollow shadows as I _still can’t scream_ -

I hear the baby crying again. I pivot on my feet. Through my blurring vision, I see another mirror. It’s smaller and a ray of light falls out of it. I recognize the mobile, the edges of the crib, and the nursery’s ceiling. With my legs disintegrating I run toward it, almost tripping over the bones of my arms as they depart from the rest of my skeleton and clatter onto the ground. I’m almost there-

I roll over the floor, limbs clutched close to me until I hit the wall. I scramble to my feet, gasping like I’ve been drowning, and bump into the cradle again. I start and turn. The mirror is still there, but instead of my actual reflection, now it shows me the horror version of me that stole my voice and appearance earlier. He’s looking angry, reaching out, hand breaking the mirror’s surface-

I run. With my limbs newly attached and re-skinned, I run like I have never before in my life. Out of the nursery, through the hallways, choking on every breath I take, tripping over every carpet and running into every wall. At long last, I reach my own room, slipping inside and darting to the closet. I pull the doors closed behind me.

By the time I dare to glimpse outside, daylight is pouring in richly through the windows. I’m sore all over but I barely dare to move. I barely dare to breathe. I’m sitting, hunched, against the wall, jackets and coats and suits hanging over me. I don’t think my heart has stopped running the mile in all the hours I’ve been there. My arm aches when I push open the door, and my legs protest soundly when I carefully stand up.

Everything looks normal. It’s as bright a day as I’ve ever seen here, birds singing and a warm morning breeze lifting the curtains through the open window. My throat is still thick with fear and my eyes are burning. I’ve got my hands pulled into fists at my side, everything in me still ready to flee if it would prove to be necessary.

It, apparently, does not.

I walk around through the hallways, every step heavy as lead, convinced something’s going to jump me from behind every corner. Nothing happens. Whatever I’m looking for, I don’t come across it.

I can’t even find the nursery from last night anymore. When I ask a servant, he leads me to a room where the Goblin is actually sleeping, a room very, _very_ different from the one I almost died in last night. The servant, upon seeing how pale I look, asks me if I’m feeling all right. I respond by running away.

 _I must’ve dreamt it_ , is the only logical explanation that comes to mind once I stop to catch my breath. It can’t have happened. I probably fell asleep at some point, maybe sleepwalked to the closet I woke up in, and had some horrible nightmare, based upon the ghost stories the violinist told me. My mind playing tricks on me, that’s all.

I pass by the sitting room I found the mirror in last night. I spot it still leaned against the wall where I left it last night and my breath hitches. Against my better judgment, I approach it. I kneel down in front of it and tentatively reach out my hand, placing it against the surface. Nothing there. Just my reflection.

And a smirk on my face that _definitely_ isn’t mine.

The reflection of the hand I’ve got against the mirror reaches out and grabs my wrist. I try to pull back, but the grip is strong as iron. My reflection leans in. “ _Don’t forget, Henry_ ,” he says, canned behind the glass and echoed as if his voice, too, is mirrored. “ _You can’t run from me._ ”

He lets go of my wrist. I scream and run away.


End file.
